You get a vague indication quite how bad “The ‘Pool” is from the preponderance of shifty Scousers handing out flyers for live, hardcore porn shows outside Amsterdam’s Casa Rossa sex club.
If they can’t bear to call their grimy, broken-glassed, metropolis home then why should anybody else in their right mind go there?
You could put your powers of taste and decency on hold for a while and visit for a few bitterly unfulfilling hours but surely you’ve got more rewarding things to do…like cleaning the oven.
Come to the home of the Beatles, they whine. Well, why bother? Do you really
want to listen to the bitter outpourings of a prat (now thankfully dead) who “Imagines no possessions” while sat on his fat arse at a Steinway in his gated �3m pad.
Or there’s that wonderful Scouse wit. That’s the sort of repartee celebrated by the funniest man in the cosmos – Stan “I could kill an Indian” Boardman – or that colossos of the comedy world Jimmy Tarbuck.
Truth is the sense of humour’s fine as long as it’s directed at somebody else….but as soon as it’s fired back at them, the thin-skinned slimeballs launch into howls of self-pity.
If they’re not cramming chips into their greasy maws, they they’re piling as many as they possibly can onto their round shoulders.
They’re misunderstood, they’re misinterpreted, they’re patronised, they’re underinvested, they’re unappreciated. They’re Scousers.
And as for the thieving….